by JM Gulvin
Downstairs, Yvonne told him that the restaurant was just two blocks from the hotel. When he went out he spotted the taxi parked in front of the American Bank building as it always was. Briefly he caught Franklin’s eye.
Pushing open the restaurant door he located the DA’s chief investigator sitting in a booth with Dean Andrews wearing his black-framed sunglasses despite the low-level lighting inside. ‘Mr Gervais,’ Quarrie said leaning with his fists on the table. ‘I got a question for you. Was it you had me spend all morning locked in a steel mesh cage?’
‘Cage?’ Andrews looked up. ‘Where was that? What sort of cage?’
Quarrie considered him with one cold eye.
‘This is Mr Andrews,’ Gervais informed him. ‘He’s a criminal attorney, Quarrie, just so you’re aware.’
The man in the sunglasses smiled. ‘Aha,’ he said. ‘The Texas Ranger everyone’s talking about. What’s this about being locked in a cage?’
‘Another time maybe, Counselor.’ Quarrie was concentrating on Gervais. ‘Detective,’ he said, ‘I know you don’t want me down here. I’m just trying to figure out why. You told me to stop disturbing the working folks, well, let me make a couple of things clear.’ He bent a little closer still. ‘Kill a man in Texas you have to account for it and messing with me ain’t a good idea.’
Outside, he walked back to the hotel. The cab was still parked on the other side of the road and jay-walking between the vehicles he crossed.
‘Mr Football Scholarship,’ he said as Franklin rolled the window down. ‘Whenever I need to go somewhere I look round and there you are.’
‘What can I tell you?’ Franklin said. ‘I’m a cab driver. This is one of my spots.’
Quarrie got in and told him to take him back to North Rampart and St Ann. Franklin drove to the junction and made the U turn. In the mirror he sought Quarrie’s eye. ‘I heard on the radio just now that the pharmacist where I took you before is missing.’ He twisted his mouth at the sides. ‘I know what I said yesterday but I can’t be driving you around this city if it’s going to land me in some kind of jackpot.’
‘Relax,’ Quarrie said, without looking at him. ‘You ain’t in a jackpot. You’re just along for the ride.’
They pulled up on the 700 block where Quarrie got out and went to the door of the pharmacy. The gate was secured and no lights were on inside. Franklin looked on from where he leaned against the driver’s door. ‘I guess they’re closed on account of how the main man’s not there.’
Quarrie glanced towards the river briefly and then along North Rampart Street before turning back to the taxi once more. ‘You told me you get around the city. Does the name Matisse mean anything to you?’
Franklin shook his head. ‘No, sir,’ he said. ‘Why?’
Quarrie didn’t answer; he just got back in the cab.
Yvonne was in the lobby and the look she had given him earlier became a question about the police being there.
‘It’s all right,’ he told her. ‘I’m a cop myself, Yvonne, a Texas Ranger, and that was all just a misunderstanding before.’
Still she looked doubtful. ‘Well, I don’t like trouble here and if you staying means we got the NOPD hammering on people’s doors, I’m going to have to ask you to leave.’
Hat tipped low, Quarrie considered her out of half-closed eyes. ‘I can do that,’ he said. ‘But like I said just now it was a misunderstanding, that’s all.’
He started for the courtyard to get some air but paused as something on the table housing the local fliers caught his eye. A handbill half hidden, it was worn at the edges and out of date but the name seemed to climb from the page. ‘Gigi Matisse’ playing with her blues band at Pat O’Brien’s. For a moment he stared then he picked up the flier and took it to the desk. ‘This singer,’ he said, placing the sheet of paper before Yvonne.
Eyebrows raised, she clicked her tongue. ‘That flier shouldn’t be there, Sergeant. It’s way out of date. She won’t be playing there now.’
‘I know that, but do you know where else she could be?’
‘Gigi Matisse?’ Yvonne shook her head. ‘No, sir, I can’t tell you where she’s playing at but she’s from the 7th Ward just like me.’
Upstairs Quarrie unlocked the door to his room and stood for a moment before he went in. He was thinking about how that cab driver was parked across the street all the time and he considered the bed and nightstand then turned to the bureau. Tugging out the drawers he went through his clothes then closed the drawers once more. His shoulder holsters were still in the bottom of the closet and he placed them on the bed. On the floor underneath was a folded newspaper and he couldn’t recall whether that had been there when he took the room or not. The way the paper was folded looked as if it was meant to cover a hole in the boards but when he checked there was no hole.
Glancing at the front page he saw a piece on the new radio station that HL Hunt had started up in Dallas just a block from KRLD. There was a short column about Muhammad Ali and his stance with the US Army and a major feature on LBJ and his visit to the house on the Pedernales River in Gillespie County where he was born. Other than that it was just stuff about the drought and he placed the paper back where it had been. Behind him the phone rang on the nightstand, Yvonne from the lobby downstairs. ‘Look,’ she said. ‘I’m sorry if I was out of line before, but . . .’
‘That’s OK, Yvonne: you run a quiet place.’
‘Gigi Matisse, y’all were asking about her just now so I called up a girlfriend I know. She told me Gigi lives in an old camelback house on North Rocheblave if that’s any use to you.’
Quarrie had a feeling the taxi would be across the street when he went out and it was. He stood on the sidewalk with his hands stuffed in the pockets of his jacket and regarded Franklin where he sat at the wheel. When the cab made the U turn he told him he wanted to go to North Rocheblave Street.
‘Everything all right back there?’ Franklin asked as he turned into the traffic. ‘You look a little preoccupied tonight.’
‘Who’re you working for, Mr Football Scholarship? Who’s picking up the tab?’
Franklin looked puzzled. ‘For the ride? Well, you are. I don’t get it, what do you mean?’
‘You know exactly what I mean,’ Quarrie said. ‘You’re at the airport to meet me and you’ve been there every time I come out of the hotel. You run me here, there and everywhere including his office so is it Colback pulling your strings?’
‘I never heard of him,’ Franklin said.
Quarrie peered out the window. ‘What about Pershing Gervais? If it’s not that lieutenant then I guess it’s him whistling Dixie, huh?’
‘Mister,’ Franklin said, ‘I got no idea what you’re talking about. And I told you earlier I’d just as soon not be driving you at all. If you want I’ll pull over right here.’
They drove across town with no more words passing between them. As they got to the 7th Ward Franklin glanced in the rear view mirror. ‘Did you find that girl you were looking for this afternoon?’
‘She’s a singer,’ Quarrie said catching his eye. ‘Plays the blues pretty good, and according to the gal at the hotel she’s got a voice like Lizzie Miles.’
Franklin said he didn’t know who Lizzie Miles was.
‘Nope, I didn’t either.’
‘You plan on booking her then? Is that what this is about?’
‘No, I ain’t looking to book her. I got a couple of questions to ask, that’s all.’
‘So you’re a cop then, huh? I kind of figured that.’ Franklin lifted a hand from the wheel.
‘Sure you did. I’m a Ranger. You know that. Colback told you who I was when he asked you to take me where I wanted to go.’
They continued the rest of the journey in silence and Franklin pulled onto North Rocheblave, a long and narrow road with potholes puncturing the asphalt. Shadows grew up outside the fall of the streetlights and a few blocks further a fire burned in an old oil drum. Quarrie gave him the house number and they pulled up outsi
de a shotgun home with a half-length second floor.
‘Camelback,’ Franklin indicated. ‘That’s what they call ’em. Contractor would’ve built them like that on account of the taxes because the city zoned them same as a regular. I tell you what,’ he said, looking over his shoulder. ‘The way you’ve been bitching I ought to take off right now, but this ain’t the kind of place to leave a white man afoot, even a Texas Ranger.’
Stepping out of the car Quarrie considered his surroundings. A few blocks further a monolithic elementary school dominated the sidewalk with a payphone out front and a church behind. In the other direction that oil drum burned where a couple of rag pickers squatted on upturned cartons. There was no front yard to the house, just three steps that rose from the sidewalk to a wooden stoop and very little gap either side. Quarrie climbed the steps and knocked. Nobody answered. All was still. Cupping one hand to his eyes he pressed his face to the glass but could make out nothing but shadows inside. Franklin looked on with the window rolled down and his arm on the sill. ‘I imagine she’s out of town someplace playing with her band.’
Quarrie didn’t reply.
‘What do you want to do?’
‘Where’s the nearest bar? If she’s a singer she’s bound to have played around here. Maybe somebody knows where she’s at.’
‘It’s possible,’ Franklin said, ‘but I doubt they’ll be talking to you.’
They drove past the rag pickers and Franklin made a turn onto another street with fewer houses and a couple of glass-fronted stores. Quarrie could see a wash house and coffee shop, another string of shabby-looking shotgun homes then a run-down bar where juke box music seemed to pulse right onto the street. Franklin pulled up outside and Quarrie regarded the worn-out sign that hung above the door. ‘The Feathered Egg,’ he muttered. ‘You got to be kidding me.’
Franklin looked over his shoulder. ‘You sure you want to do this? You’re going to be the only white face in there and that might be OK but then again it might not.’
The cab pulled away and Quarrie felt a breath of wind in the air. With another glance at the weathered-looking sign he went in. Dark and gloomy, the lighting cast from naked bulbs hung with colored paper shades that looked like they might be a fire hazard. He could see holes here and there in the shiplap walls and when the wind blew it would break right through. On hot days that might not be a bad thing but when it rained the place would be awash.
The wall opposite the door was devoted to a wooden bar that sported a couple of old-fashioned beer taps fixed into barrels in sawbuck racks. Beyond it the wall panels were fitted with shelves stacked with bottles of liquor. The stools out front had probably been topped with some kind of velour at one time or other but not anymore. A few circular tables scattered the dusty floor and there was a shabby-looking pool table ahead of the corridor that led to the restrooms. Despite all that the place was heaving with people laughing and talking, the hullaballoo only just overshadowed by Etta James’s voice pumping from the juke box.
The cab driver was right, Quarrie’s was the only white face in there and the moment he was spotted the conversation petered out and the laughter died. Gradually every eye turned his way and he moved to the bar with his hands in his jacket pockets. Nobody spoke. Everybody stared and only Etta James’s voice could be heard. Carefully he picked his way through a group of young men wearing jeans and canvas jackets. At the bar he ordered a beer from a big man with a lazy left eye who rolled his good eye across Quarrie’s hat.
‘Mister,’ he said. ‘I can get you that beer but you sure this is really the spot?’
Evenly Quarrie looked back.
‘Serve the man, Clarence.’ A woman’s voice, soft and husky, it lifted from further along the counter. She looked around forty and her tightly cut hair was the color of coal.
The bartender poured out a glass of beer from one of the barrels and everyone’s attention drifted back to what they had been doing. A skinny-looking man shifted off the barstool next to Quarrie and the woman motioned for him to sit down.
‘Well,’ she said, ‘I reckon whoever you are you’re an awful long way from home.’
Taking a seat on the stool Quarrie smiled. ‘Can I get you a drink?’
‘Sure.’ She passed her empty glass to the bartender.
Quarrie broke open a pack of Camels and offered one but the woman shook her head.
‘So, you’re not from New Orleans,’ she said, ‘and this ain’t any kind of place for tourists. What’re you doing back here?’
Quarrie lighted his cigarette. ‘I’m looking for Gigi Matisse.’
As he spoke so a couple of people turned their way but still the woman held his eye.
‘What do you want with her?’
Quarrie looked keenly at her then. ‘Do you know her?’
‘Sure I know her. Everybody round here knows Gigi.’
All about them people were talking and the music still played, not Etta James now but the Four Tops. It was getting harder to hear and with that in mind perhaps the woman slipped off the stool and led Quarrie to the far side of the room. They sat down at an empty table and the same group of young men cast inquisitive glances their way.
‘So what is it you want with Gigi?’ she asked him.
Still Quarrie held her eye. ‘What’s your name, mam? Who am I talking to?’
‘What’s your name, cowboy? It’s you who’s visiting with me.’
‘My name’s Quarrie,’ he said.
‘So who are you that you’re looking for Gigi?’
‘I’m a Texas Ranger.’
The woman sat back in the chair stretching her arms and pointing her fingers. He could smell the perfume she was wearing where it was laced with a hint of sweat.
‘So your interest,’ she said, ‘it isn’t personal then, it’s professional.’
Quarrie lifted his gaze to hers. ‘Have you any idea where she is?’
‘With what that girl does for a living she could be just about any place right now.’
Quarrie was peering beyond her to where people were beginning to look their way.
‘You still haven’t told me why you’re looking for her.’ The woman gestured. ‘Gigi’s a friend of mine and you’re a cop from out of state. I’m not going to try and figure out where she might be till you tell me what you want with her.’
For a moment Quarrie was still. He looked evenly at her then he reached in his pocket and took out the empty Proloid bottle and placed it on the table between them. ‘I want to talk about this,’ he said. ‘It has her name on it. The contents killed a man and I found it in a hotel room in Texas.’
Ten
A fine rain was falling as Detective De La Martin pulled up outside the Hotel Magnolia. Sitting at the wheel for a moment he loosened the tie at his throat, checked his mirrors then reached for a heavy-duty paper sack where it lay on the passenger seat. Climbing from the car he strode under the arch into the courtyard where lights drifted from the lobby. Yvonne was at the door to the office and her gaze settled on the package he placed on the counter.
‘Remember me?’ De La Martin said.
Yvonne nodded.
‘Is he in?’
‘No, sir, I believe he went out.’
De La Martin cocked his head to one side and shifted a plug of tobacco from one side of his mouth to the other. ‘You believe he went out?’
‘He went out,’ Yvonne stated definitely. ‘He called a taxi to take him back of town.’
‘The 7th Ward, what does he want up there?’
Yvonne lifted her shoulders.
‘He didn’t tell you?’
She shook her head.
Still De La Martin held her eye. ‘Do you know why we were here this morning?’
‘Yes, sir, I heard on the news how a pharmacist went missing.’
‘That’s right. Claude Matthews, a gentle soul who never did anybody any harm. On the contrary he did a lot of folks a whole lot of good. Got him a wife at home, kids in college and nobody k
nows where he’s at.’ He looked keenly at Yvonne again. ‘So do you want to tell me what the Ranger’s doing in the 7th Ward?’
‘Sir,’ she said, ‘you know I’m only looking out for the privacy of my guest. Fact is he asked about Gigi Matisse.’
‘Who?’
‘Gigi Matisse. She’s a singer, plays with her band around town. He spotted her name on a flier that was out of date and had me find her address.’
Working slowly at the tobacco De La Martin peered at the photos of jazz musicians hanging on the wall. ‘So tell me about him,’ he said. ‘The Ranger I’m talking about.’
Again Yvonne shrugged her shoulders. ‘I don’t know what I can say to you. I don’t know nothing about him. I guess there’s been a couple of phone calls but nothing much apart from that.’
‘Has anyone been by since he’s been staying here?’
Yvonne shook her head. ‘You mean apart from the forensics people and that other officer you-all sent down?’
The detective frowned. ‘What other officer?’ he said.
‘A young man with straw-colored hair, he was in regular clothes like you are and went up to the sergeant’s room.’
*
Franklin waited outside the bar until he saw the doors swing open and Quarrie come out. He had his hat pressed to his eyes and his shoulders hunched. Franklin watched him for a couple of moments then flashed his lights.
‘Still here then,’ Quarrie muttered as he got in the back.
‘I told you already, you should be grateful I stuck around.’
When he dropped him at the hotel Quarrie found Yvonne still working the desk. She looked at him a little warily. ‘Sergeant, the detective was here just now, the one from this morning. He came by with your guns and said to tell you he was taking them to Lieutenant Colback.’
Quarrie frowned. ‘Why would he do that?’
‘I can’t tell you, sir. But he left me this address.’
When he went back out to Canal Street the taxi was gone. Making his way down to St Charles, he took the trolley car heading for Audubon. He sat with his hat in his lap, thinking about the 7th Ward and the black woman with crew-cut hair. He got off at St Andrew Street and walked with a mist swirling about his legs. Heading towards the river he found the house on Camp Street built in traditional clapboard and set behind a half-height fence made from iron railings that were tipped with fleur de lys. Peering between the cypress trees he saw an Eldorado parked on the gravel driveway. He rang the bell on the small gate and a couple of minutes later it opened automatically and he was greeted at the front door by Colback wearing a pair of chinos and a monogrammed shirt. He showed Quarrie into a spacious, oak-panelled hallway, the stairs overlooked by a series of painted portraits.
